


Bouef Bourguignon

by nerddowell



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-01
Updated: 2013-11-01
Packaged: 2017-12-31 04:57:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1027479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nerddowell/pseuds/nerddowell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Anyway, the prompt (on Tumblr) was a modern AU in which Enjolras sucks at cooking so Combeferre drags him to classes. Of course, he's put on the table next to Grantaire, who ignores all semblances of a recipe and still turns out a perfect plate of food whilst Enjolras slaves over every step and ends up with what looks like poop in a pot. Of course he comes back next time even more determined to get it right, Grantaire drives him crazy and eventually offers a hand. And then they do the deed on the table right there in the kitchen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bouef Bourguignon

**Author's Note:**

  * For [enjettaire](https://archiveofourown.org/users/enjettaire/gifts).



In his defence, Enjolras isn’t quite sure how they got here, him with his legs spread wide and his ass hanging off the table, and Grantaire, the insufferable bastard, slowly pushing his cock so deep into Enjolras’ ass that he can practically feel it against his tonsils. And Enjolras moans, and twitches, his eyes falling shut and his mouth falling open, and he whimpers and clutches at Grantaire’s back, his nails digging in and scratching a bit as the guy’s lean hips arch back and then rock forward, making him skid a little over the smooth wood in the food tech kitchen. He can hear Joly’s screams of anguish at how  _unsanitary_  this is,  _fucking like wild animals in a room where food is prepared, really, Enjolras, have you no shame_ , and he lets out a snort that morphs into a gasp as Grantaire gives another powerful thrust and stars explode behind his eyes as the metal beads of his foreskin piercing drag over Enjolras’ prostate.

 

Okay, so maybe he was lying when he said he didn’t know how they got here. It was all Combeferre’s fault, with a healthy dose of Courfeyrac’s idiotic semi-protective, mostly-mocking lack of faith in Enjolras’ culinary skills. He’s been living on a perfectly balanced diet of ramen noodles, mashed potato (thankfully not instant) and coffee, but for some reason Courf insists that that’s not good enough.  _For fuck’s sake, Enjolras, you can’t just live on toast and vanilla soy lattes, you’ll get scurvy or something_ had been his exact words, and of course Joly had backed him up, being a) the world’s most pessimistic hypochondriac ever and b) permanently installed in Courfeyrac’s bed, therefore feeling that he has to back his boyfriend up in everything, even when Courf is (rightly) telling him how much of an idiot he is.

 

So that is how Combeferre managed to drag him to this ridiculous class where he has to follow a ridiculously simple recipe to make something he’s seen made a thousand times, sweat dripping down his forehead because the kitchen is like a giant oven itself and he’s got his unrestrainable curls tucked under a grey beanie to keep them out of the food, glaring at the asshole on the next table over who isn’t even doing things right.

 

The asshole, whom one of his and Combeferre’s study group has informed him is called Grantaire, is currently up to his elbows in flour, pounding the shit out of a ball of bread dough and taking copious gulps from the bottle of cooking sherry he found when breaking into the locked cupboard in the pantry when Combeferre wasn’t looking. He’s wearing a thin grey tshirt, already dark with sweat at the chest and armpits, displaying a pinup-girl tattoo who wiggles her hips provocatively every time his bicep flexes. She gives a sultry sway as he raises his hand to wipe the back of one floury wrist across his forehead, laughing at Courfeyrac’s groan of misfortune as he takes out his blackened, unrisen bread -  _Shit, I forgot the fucking yeast!_  and then  _Language, Courfeyrac_ , says Combeferre - as he dumps the dough on to a lightly-dusted baking tray and slams the oven door shut behind it with one black Converse-clad foot.

 

He’s got a pot full of stock bubbling on the hob, which he pours a liberal splash of wine into - of course taking another gulp or four for himself - and is currently holding a bundle of herbs down against a chipped wooden chopping board, effortlessly chopping it into fine green strands as he watches Jehan, a Lit major from Enjolras’ gender studies group, patch up a bloodied finger with a blue culinary band-aid. The poor guy looks like he’s about to pass out; obviously Jehan doesn’t deal well with blood.

 

His eyes are a startling denim grey-blue, like a sea storm, and there’s sea foam green and flecks of copper and gold hiding in amongst them; Enjolras catches them on him several times whilst Grantaire watches him slave over his pot of casserole, which looks more like oxymoronically lumpy diarrhea in a saucepan than anything edible. He calls out a provocative  _Need a little help?_  and his lips twitch up into a mocking smile which makes Enjolras want to punch him in the face and sit down on the floor until his heart stops pounding both at the same time. Enjolras grits out a  _No, thank you_  in the most polite tone he muster, and glowers at his soggy, semi-baked bread, cutting a Quorn chicken breast into chunks with a lot more vehemence than necessary.

 

By the end of the lesson, his dinner - Quorn chicken casserole with homemade bread to soak up the sauce with (not that soaking would be required, as Grantaire had pointed out with a shit-eating grin on his face, gesturing to Enjolras’ saucepan in the sink which was still covered with sauce so thick he’d had to scrape it out of the pan with a carving knife -  _Too much cornflour_ , Combeferre said with an apologetic look) - was only deemed edible by Bahorel, who was a human dustbin anyway and had come purely for the free food. Grantaire, despite throwing any and everything into the pot without so much as a glance at the recipe or at Combeferre’s instruction, had predictably crafted a culinary masterpiece, presenting a leg of wine-soaked lamb on a bed of endives, salted mashed potato and a tower stack of carrots. Combeferre had paused in what was quite clearly amazement before taking off his proverbial hat and laughing, saying  _Maybe it’s you who should be teaching this class._

 

Enjolras let out a derisive snort he didn’t even try to pretend wasn’t pure jealousy.

 

And of course because he’s a fucking masochist and loves making a fool of himself in front of sarcastic assholes with storm-blue eyes and tattoos that make him want to lick all over the thick, tribal lines (and actually, he had an extremely disturbing mid-week wet dream about pouring Grantaire’s cooking sherry over his skin and licking it all off him, tracing the lines of his tattoos with his tongue whilst Grantaire moaned and panted filthy things into his ear), he comes back next week, when they’re supposed to be working on a dessert. And Combeferre deliberately picks crème brûlée because he knows it’s Enjolras’ least favourite dessert and he’s clearly conspiring with Grantaire and Courfeyrac to make Enjolras’ life miserable; the second he walks into the kitchen and sees it written up there on the board, he feels like turning around and walking straight back out again.

 

He stays, though, because he’s fucking determined to get it right this time, if only to show the little shit on the next table over that following the recipe - instead of just shrugging and saying  _Fuck it_ as you throw who cares how much of your ingredients into the pot and hoping for the best - can yield good results too. Of course, Grantaire is a secret mind-reader and makes a smartass comment about  _You’re not going to beat me this week either_ , and Enjolras balls his fists and tries to ignore him as he weighs out one hundred grams of caster sugar. Grantaire, of course, is laughing as he breaks open a vanilla pod and throws it into an almost-overflowing, riotously-bubbling saucepan. He tears an instant coffee bag open with his teeth and pours the granules onto a spoon, prodding Jehan with it and daring him to eat it; Courfeyrac, valiantly leaping to Jehan’s rescue, sticks it into his mouth and (stupidly) chews before looking like he’s going to vomit and sticking his head under the tap to remoisturise his mouth. Grantaire is laughing so hard there are tears rolling down his cheeks, having to cling onto the worktop to prevent himself from falling onto the floor, and Enjolras grits out a  _Shut the fuck up, dickhead, I’m trying to work here_  and receives a faceful of icing sugar, which Grantaire has scooped out of the bag with one hand and thrown straight at him.

 

From then on it’s on, on like Donkey Kong, and Enjolras refuses to take this blatant act of war lying down. Over the course of the lesson, Grantaire accidentally-on-purpose spills cream down Enjolras’s tshirt, definitely deliberately dumps flour over his head, and even throws a vanilla pod at him from over his saucepan. Enjolras responds in kind by sabotaging his cooking, adding ketchup and even vinegar to the pudding bubbling away on the hob whenever Grantaire is too busy choosing his next missile to lob at him. Combeferre has long since given up telling them to act like adults in the kitchen instead of a pair of eight-year-olds, and the rest of the class are watching their food fight instead of paying attention to what they’re supposed to be doing, meaning that there are a lot of scorched pans and cries of dismay as their classmates realise the cream has curdled and the crème is bubbling so much that it’s overflowing and is burning solid onto the oven tops.

 

Irritatingly, even Bahorel won’t touch Enjolras’ attempt this time; Grantaire’s looks and tastes perfect, despite all the random crap Enjolras has been dumping into it. He is infuriated and demands to know why his has failed muster again, before Courfeyrac snorts and tells him to  _Just look at it, Enjolras_ , and then maybe he  _does_  have to admit that the pile of vaguely greenish slop at the bottom of his singed ramekin isn’t what crème brûlée is supposed to look like. And as the rest of the class files out, Grantaire comes over and gently runs a hand through Enjolras’ hair, trying to tease all the sugar out, and says in a voice that’s only half-laughing that he wouldn’t mind lending Enjolras a hand, if only he wasn’t too proud to ask. And Enjolras glowers, not at Grantaire but at himself because he can feel the blush rising in his cheeks at the choice of words - and it was a very poor choice of words indeed, because the main reason Enjolras has been failing to focus on his cooking is because his mind has been focused on that exact image - Grantaire giving him a hand, and then a mouth, and then three fingers stuffed up his ass and making him scream as he fucks him, hard, against the countertop.

_Fine_ , he growls,  _you can help me_ , and Grantaire smiles, a slow, almost flirty bow that makes his full lower lip pout a little and the thin Cupid’s bow of his upper lip crease where there’s a scar bisecting it in the centre; Enjolras feels something he refuses to name fluttering in his stomach, and Grantaire pulls another set of pots and pans down from the shelf above Enjolras’ workstation and sets to showing him how to be what Nigella Lawson would probably term a domestic god. Of course Enjolras is paying perfect attention and not admiring how lean Grantaire’s waist is, the way the sweat on his back makes his shirt cling, showing off his musculature; definitely not staring at his ass in the loose-hanging track pants barely clinging onto his narrow hips, and certainly not noticing that Grantaire is going commando when he turns around to look for a pinch of cinnamon.

 

Enjolras is shaking, and he dips his fingers into the cream - thick and sweet and white, and it makes him think of something else entirely so he can’t help smearing it all over Grantaire’s lips, and Jesus Christ the imagery is enough to make his knees go weak and he almost creams his fucking pants - and Grantaire must know what he’s thinking because he slowly licks it off, his eyes fluttering closed as though it’s the most divine thing he’s ever tasted, and Enjolras can’t take it any more. He pulls Grantaire flush against him and attacks his mouth, chasing up every last drop of the cream from Grantaire’s lips, where it’s collected in the corners, and sticks his tongue into the other man’s mouth hungrily. Grantaire moans, breaks away to haul in a deep, shaky breath before yanking Enjolras in for another kiss and wrapping his arm firmly around the younger man’s waist, holding him so tight he can’t breathe.

 

They kiss like dying men clinging to each other in the heat of a battle, the crème brûlée cooling rapidly in its ramekins on the side completely forgotten; Grantaire is palming Enjolras through his jeans, and Enjolras’ breath is hitching as he pants against Grantaire’s lips, one hand tangled in dark curls and the other clinging for dear life onto the marble countertop. Grantaire kisses him again as he guides Enjolras’ hand to his cock, rubbing his cotton-covered crotch against the smooth pink palm, and Enjolras can feel something harder even than the thick, heavy prick grinding against the heel of his hand against the tips of his fingers.  _Are you_ -? he breathes out, his blood boiling, and Grantaire understands.

_Pierced? Yes._

_Jesus_ , Enjolras whimpers weakly, and his hand involuntarily closes around Grantaire’s stiff cock.  _Let me see_ , he begs, and Grantaire yanks his pants down before the words are even fully out of Enjolras’ mouth. Suddenly he’s gripping smooth, hot skin, warmish studs of metal brushing the sides of his fingers as he slowly caresses his hand down to the tip, toying with the pierced foreskin; Grantaire lets out a whine, his hips fucking into Enjolras’ fist, and breathes a plea for  _More_.

 

Enjolras gets down on his knees.

 

Above him, Grantaire looks like he’s going to pass out, face red and legs slightly spread, his forehead sweaty and knuckles white as he grasped the edges of the counters, anything to stop himself from collapsing to the floor when the hot, wet mouth currently trailing kisses up his inner thighs finally reaches the flushed, straining pinnacle of his desire. Enjolras watches as a drop of precome, pearly and translucent, wells up in the slit, and flicks out his tongue to taste before even thinking; Grantaire gasps, sounding almost pained in his desperation, and Enjolras takes pity, suckling the head and running his tongue over the studs, enjoying the metallic-salty-bitter taste of Grantaire. He bobs his head, taking him in deeper as a hand relinquishes its death grip of the counter to grasp a handful of blond curls, nudging his head forwards as Grantaire’s hips gently arch, encouraging him to take him in a little more, a little further… He obeys willingly, until Grantaire’s passed his gag reflex and his nose is buried in the musky-scented nest of curls at the base. The noises the older man is making as Enjolras sucks him, laving his tongue over every inch of the artist he can reach without pulling back, are inhuman, sharp grunts and groans like a dying animal; eventually he yanks Enjolras back with a grip harsh enough to be painful as he shoves him away.

 

"Wha-?" He doesn’t have time to finish, because Grantaire’s desperate hands are lifting Enjolras onto the counter, stripping off his paint- and cream-spattered tshirt, and he’s slicking his fingers with olive oil, already yanking Enjolras’ jeans down and circling his hole. Begging to be let in with broken pleas and gasps of Enjolras’ name. He spreads his legs obediently, and Grantaire pushes two fingers in, scissoring them to stretch him open. The pain flares and he ignores it, too far gone to let the twinge of a sore ass bother him; Grantaire is panting and slack-mouthed above him, lips shiny and cherry-red from Enjolras’ kisses, and the head of his cock is brushing Enjolras’ hole and he’s pushing in and -

 

 _Oh, sweet fucking Christ on a bike._ Grantaire draws out and pistons his hips forward again, Enjolras skating back a few inches over the tabletop as he lets out a blissful cry; the studs on Grantaire’s cock dragging over his prostate make lights appear behind his eyes, the pleasure so strong he can barely breathe through it, and Grantaire doesn’t stop. In fact, he speeds up, his arms braced either side of Enjolras’ ribs as he fucks into him, and Enjolras digs his nails into Grantaire’s shoulders because if he doesn’t have something to ground him he’s going to explode; another deep, soul-rocking thrust, and his nails are scratching deep furrows into Grantaire’s skin, which only seems to excite him more. He bites down on Enjolras’ collarbone, pistoning his hips, once, twice, and Enjolras is screaming the fucking place down, not caring who hears him. He comes with a blissful yell of Grantaire’s name, crushing him in a vise grip as he wraps his legs around his waist to hold him buried inside of him, refusing to ever let him pull out; Grantaire chokes out another  _En-_ and shudders as he comes, his whole body going rigid before collapsing bonelessly on top of the younger man with his head buried in Enjolras’ shoulder.

 

It takes twenty minutes for Enjolras to grunt for him to move, and Grantaire just whimpers and tells him he’s not done with the afterglow yet, and Enjolras snorts and rubs another handful of flour into the dark, messy curls.


End file.
